A Starman Waiting In The Sky
by YouCareSoMuch
Summary: "I don't think I got your name." John said. "Oh, Right. I'm the Doctor." "That's it? Just the Doctor? Doctor who?" The man's smile got impossibly wider. "If you like." A five plus one story: Five times John saw the Doctor and one time Sherlock did. Title is from a song by David Bowie. I own nothing.
1. The First Time

**Author's Note: My first foray into the Doctor Who fandom. If all goes well this will be a five plus one with John meeting the Doctor in various situations. I have vague ideas for the next five chapters. Tell me what you think! I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock and never will.**

John got mugged in the stupidest way; he was blindsided while running another crazy errand for Sherlock.

Before John had met his genius yet sometimes spectacularly ignorant flat mate, he had never made evening trips to strange pawn shops in order to inquire after a man who had pawned a large collection of watches recently. As it was, he had gone to three shabby establishments so far, searching for Sherlock's suspect.

"Are you a cop?" The proprietor of the fourth pawn shop John had entered in two hours asked.

"I work for Scotland Yard. As a consultant." Only a small lie.

"And the Yard is wondering how many watches we have?" The man raised a greasy eyebrow. "Are we under investigation?"

John smiled tightly. "Not that I know of. All we need to know is if a man came in wanting to pawn a large collection of Rolex watches."

Sherlock hadn't told John much about this particular case—"Barely a four, John. Hardly worth a full investigation."—all John knew was there had been a rash of robberies involving Rolex watches. Sherlock was called in because the last two robberies ended in murder.

"This man kill somebody?" The pawn shop proprietor looked far too interested in the subject of murder.

"Yes. Could you answer my question?" John was too tired to deal with bloodthirsty shop-owners.

"No watches. Sorry." The man grimaced at him.

John sighed. "Thanks." The sentiment was said without any real gratitude.

Exiting the pawn shop, John saw the last of the sunlight disappearing. John's sigh turned into a yawn and he pulled out his phone to inform Sherlock he was done for the night.

' _Four shops, no luck. Are you sure the suspect stole the watches to pawn them?'_ He texted Sherlock.

Sherlock responded in two minutes, the time it took for John to walk down the road and onto a nearly empty street.

' _He needed to get rid of the evidence quickly and he also needed money. A pawn shop is the obvious choice." -SH_

John was beginning to type a response when he was shoved from behind.

He staggered forward to keep his balance. Three men surrounded him.

"I have no money." John said into the expectant silence. This was a lie, however. Sherlock probably wouldn't miss his credit card if it was stolen but John would, after all, he was the one who paid all of their joint expenses.

The biggest of them stepped forward to restrain John while another punched John in the stomach. John struggled, breaking one of his arms free and swinging blindly behind him, hitting the man who was restraining him.

John threw a punch and hit one of the men, breaking his nose. While he groaned and clutched his nose, John kicked him hard on the shins.

The second and third men began raining punches on John's face and torso. John fought back wildly; no technique, just a fight to protect himself.

The man with the broken nose was ordering his goons to just take John's wallet and run.

"He's puttin' up a fight. I can't get to his pockets." One man responded.

"Push him down."

The goons obliged, knocking John roughly to the pavement so that John's head bounced off the hard cement. Once he was down, the men kicked him to keep him there.

John groaned and felt tears of pain and shock rise to his eyes. He stopped fighting and lay curled up on the ground as the men rummaged his pockets.

"His phone is broken. Too bad. It's a good model." The biggest goon muttered. He kicked John hard and triumphantly said, "That's for my nose."

John let his eyes flutter close and listened to the retreating footsteps of the men.

His ribs felt bruised and tender, and he definitely had a concussion. John inwardly cursed Sherlock for his fool errands to the shadiest places in London.

John felt shame overtake the pain he was in; he was a soldier, he shouldn't be put out of commission so easily.

As he was debating whether to get up and stumble home—going to the police was pointless, and a hospital was unnecessary—or lay on the pavement until his ears stopped ringing, John heard the sound of a whooshing, squealing engine.

He kept his eyes closed, not entirely sure he hadn't imagined the noise.

When he heard squeaky hinges indicating a door opening and then footsteps, John opened his eyes. And then someone tripped over him.

A tall man stood over him, slightly off balance because he had stumbled over John lying prone on the ground.

"Whoa, hello! Sorry about that! I've never been good at landing. But, look at the bright side, eh? At least, the Tardis didn't land on you!"

Peering down at John, the man made his apologetic speech. The man's hair hung down in his eyes; he had sharp cheekbones and a prominent chin.

John blinked the fatigue out of his eyes and tried to form a coherent thought through the throbbing in his head. This man seemed to have just stepped out of a phone box. A phone box that had just appeared out of nowhere.

John shut his eyes again tightly and thought, _I must've hit my head really hard._

"You hit your head?"

Oh. He'd said that out loud.

"Is that why you're on the ground? You'll have to forgive my lapse—I'm feeling a bit slow and stupid today. Haven't been among humans in ages. Do you need to see a doctor?" The man who had emerged from the phone box chuckled at this last statement as if it were a funny joke.

John tried to push himself up, but was hindered by a stabbing protest from his bruised ribs.

John couldn't even remember if hallucinations were a symptom of a concussion. Despite not fully believing the man who had emerged from the blue phone box was real, John responded.

"Uh, no. I don't need a doctor. I'm a doctor." John said, bringing his hands to his head and compressing it as the pain had elevated after he spoke.

"Really? A real one? That's exciting. Do you need help getting up? Who hurt you? Was it an alien with tentacles? Lots of teeth? Suckers? I've met one with all of the above."

When John opened his eyes the man (possibly elaborate hallucination) was beaming down at John. John didn't know which of the man's questions to answer first.

"Yes, I'm a real doctor. Yes, some help would be great, thanks. And no, no, uh, aliens involved in my injuries, just a couple members of greedy humanity." John's head gave another painful throb and he groaned. Why was this man talking about aliens?

The strange man made a disapproving noise as he helped John sit up, and lean against the blue phone box. "Your own species." The man said, "It's a real shame when violence is the only way to settle issues."

The man crouched next to John and smiled at him. "Sorry again about tripping over you. I'm normally great at first impressions."

"That's alright." John couldn't look away from the man; there was no way his imagination was this elaborate. And talkative.

"Wouldn't have set down here in London at all, but the Tardis has gone wibbly." The strange man said, patting the phone box almost affectionately, "I knocked something important loose on the console the other day. Volleyball. Dangerous game. Amy's forever reprimanding me for playing with the ball in the engine room. Now I'm strictly forbidden to the volleyball court."

In an upright position, John's ribs felt even more tender and bruised. His head was spinning and he felt vaguely nauseous. He needed to get home and put some ice on his injuries and yet here he was, making no effort to get up and listening to the man with a shock of brown hair and high cheekbones talk about a broken console in his... phone box. The man was still beaming at him. John thought it must be exhausting to smile as much as this man seemed to.

"I don't think I got your name." John tried talking quietly so as not to cause another flare of pain in his head. It didn't work.

"Oh right. I'm the Doctor." Still smiling.

"The Doctor." Another burst of pain. "That's it? Just the Doctor? Doctor who?"

The man's smile got impossibly wider. "If you like. What about you? I haven't gotten your name. All I know about you is you're a doctor and you have a penchant for getting attacked in alleyways."

John sighed. "John. John Watson." He said. "And I don't have a penchant for being attacked."

"Nice to meet you, John Watson, despite the unpleasant circumstances." The man said, holding out a hand for John to shake.

John obliged, then stared at the man, trying to decide once and for all if his concussion had created a detailed hallucination. He—the Doctor—wore a tweed jacket and suspenders. His red bow tie was lopsided.

"I... I don't mean to be rude. But, who the hell are you?" John had decided the man was real. He would never be able to dream up something as strange as this.

"I told you: I'm the Doctor."

"Right. Okay." John guessed no other name was forthcoming. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat Mr. Doctor—"

"Just the Doctor."

"But I have to get home. Sherlock's probably having a panic attack because I haven't responded to his text yet." John vaguely recalled his muggers saying his phone was broken, and he looked around for the device.

Locating it, John saw that it was indeed shattered.

"Oh, that's a shame." The Doctor said, looking at John's phone. "The sonic might be able to fix it, but it could also give it an update that you wouldn't see accomplished for several centuries."

John decided not to ask what a 'sonic' was and why it could make his phone a technological miracle.

"Who's Sherlock?" The Doctor asked.

"My flat mate." John's head throbbed with a vengeance, as though punishing John for neglecting his injuries thus far. "I have to get home."

"Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital?" The Doctor narrowed his eyes at John, "You're getting blood on my Tardis. I'll have to get disinfectant wipes as well as duck tape."

"Duck tape?" John scooted forward and saw that the Doctor was right: he had blood soaking the back of his head and he had dirtied the blue box when he had leant his head back.

"Yes, duck tape. To repair my broken console. I knocked a knob loose."

"You mean duct tape."

"Hm. Are you sure? I've been calling it duck tape for a century." The Doctor looked thoughtful.

"I'm pretty sure it's called duct tape."

The Doctor pouted at this confirmation in a petulant way that reminded John of Sherlock.

"They should've called it duck tape. Maybe I'll talk to the inventor."

John's head throbbed again as he tried to process this sentence. "What? No. Never mind. I don't want to know. Can you give me a hand up?"

The Doctor stood up and held out a hand which John grasped. At John's loud groan upon standing, the Doctor made a noise of disapproval.

"You should go to the hospital."

"No. I'm a doctor, victims of muggings are just told to ice and get some rest. Going to the hospital won't accomplish anything." John said, unsteady now that he was standing.

"Alright. Well, being a good Samaritan, I'll help you back to your house."

John was too tired too deny the help. Nodding at John's expression of gratitude, the Doctor let John lean on him and together they walked down the street.

Once they made it to the main road, John hailed a cab.

"I can make it from here, Doctor." John said when the cab pulled up beside them.

During their short trip, John had tried not to let his imagination run away from him as he theorized about who this man was. It wasn't any of his business, and yet he couldn't help being curious.

"Goodbye, John Watson. It was a pleasure to meet you." The Doctor said with a smile as John got into the cab.

"Yeah, likewise. Thanks again for the help."

John closed the cab door, and watched the strange man's retreat back the way they had came as the cab pulled away from the curb.

John wondered if Sherlock would believe his odd encounter.


	2. The Second Time

**Author's Note: I am regretfully American, so my knowledge of British supermarkets and currency is negligible. Apologies for any mistakes. Tell me what you think: reviews are my lifeblood. I own NOTHING.**

Sherlock took one look at John and didn't let him get a word out before he pushed John onto the sofa and retrieved ice and painkillers.

"Don't you have sense enough to be aware of your surroundings? How were you taken by surprise?"

John still hadn't said a word; he held the ice to the back of his head and swallowed the painkillers Sherlock gave him. Brushing aside the obvious frustration in Sherlock's words, he focused on the hidden concern in Sherlock's voice as he responded.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Nothing some rest and ice won't cure."

Sherlock was in the kitchen. John, on the couch, couldn't see him, but could hear him bustling about.

When Sherlock made his entrance into the living room, he was carrying another ice pack.

Sherlock invaded John's personal space in order to look at John's pupils, gauging how bad his concussion was.

"Dilated pupils. Mild concussion—"

"I know, Sherlock."

"Put this ice on your torso." Sherlock handed John the second ice pack. "Repeated trauma to your ribs, no weapons besides their feet and fists." Sherlock was scanning John from head to foot, somehow aware of every injury John had received.

"Two—three men, one was restraining you. They took your wallet, but not your phone. Why didn't you contact me if you still had your phone?"

John was about to speak when Sherlock answered his own question. "Broken. Of course. You dropped it after the first shove because you were texting me when you were attacked."

John held ice to his head and torso, looking rather like an awkwardly posed statue as Sherlock's deductions tapered off.

"Are you done?" John asked.

Sherlock glared at him but went to perch in his armchair without complaint, calculating eyes still on John.

"Who did you meet?" Sherlock said after a period of silence wherein John closed his eyes and welcomed the chance to rest.

"Hm?" John said in response, pain flowing away as the painkillers began to take effect.

"You met someone after you were attacked and you received a shock."

John opened his eyes. "Yeah. He called himself the Doctor." John wondered how much of the encounter he should tell Sherlock. Sherlock had never and would never believe in any form of magic or paranormal occurrences. So, if John told Sherlock that a blue phone box had appeared out of nowhere, and a man had stepped out of it talking a mile a minute about aliens and long lifespans and God knows what else, Sherlock would probably think him mad. Or more severely concussed than initial deductions had revealed.

Making his decision, John gave no further explanation of the Doctor.

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow, "The Doctor? This man walked up to you and said 'I'm the Doctor'? Well, that's not too unusual a response upon seeing someone who has been mugged. Though, he didn't offer you any medical assistance, did he? Just aided you to a cab. Probably assumed you'd go to the hospital." Sherlock was still looking at John.

John didn't know what to say in response to Sherlock's speculation, so he just shrugged noncommittally.

"He didn't give you any other name? Just 'the Doctor'?"

John nodded stiffly, hoping Sherlock would drop this line of conversation soon.

Sherlock furrowed his brow for a moment in thought, then his expression abruptly shifted into one of boredom. "Strange, but unimportant. Now, getting back to the case, our Rolex robber is, objectively, smart, but he's predictable. His end goal is not the watches, but the money he could get from them..."

John breathed a—hopefully unnoticeable—sigh of relief at the change of subject.

It felt odd keeping a secret from Sherlock I-know-everything-about-everyone Holmes, but it wasn't as if John was keeping something important from his flat mate; it was unlikely that John would ever see the mysterious man who called himself the Doctor again, so withholding information about him was inconsequential.

Over the next couple of weeks, while Sherlock brought the Rolex robbery case to a quick end and moved to a new case involving the gruesome murders of only men named Hubert, John recovered and more or less pushed all thought of the Doctor to the back of his mind.

The morning that John's bruised ribs felt fully healed occurred about three weeks later.

Sherlock was muttering to himself again. Muttering and riffling through the contents of a box of the last victim's possessions.

John closed the newspaper he had been skimming and stood up to put the kettle on. Passing Sherlock, he peered into the box of the victim's possessions then gave his friend a searching glance to gauge his state of mind.

Sherlock dug a notebook out of the box and thumbed through it, still muttering to himself.

John figured Sherlock wasn't too far gone that he'd be averse to conversation, so as he filled the kettle John asked, "Are the victims connected by anything besides their names?"

Sherlock tossed the notebook aside with a growl of frustration and ran his hands through his black curls. "They must be. There has to be something else connecting these men."

John set out two cups and sat down while the kettle boiled. He crossed his arms and watched Sherlock pull at his hair and glare at the victim's box like it was a person who had attempted to engage him in small talk.

John sighed and dragged the box across the table so he could look through it. "Maybe the killer just really hates the name 'Hubert'." John said, sorting through the box's contents with a tad more care than Sherlock.

Sherlock grunted, "That would be understandable. 'Hubert' is a ridiculous name."

John snorted with mirth as the kettle started to whistle. John heaved himself up and prepared the tea. "Or, he might have a personal vendetta against one specific Hubert and he's just killing them all until he finds his guy." John speculated, handing Sherlock his tea.

Sherlock raised his head, seeming to ponder John's speculation. "That's a possibility..."

John raised an eyebrow as he sipped his tea, "Really?" For he hadn't been serious.

"Personal vendettas are very common these days." Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

A silence fell as John finished his tea, and Sherlock ignored his tea and meditated.

John foresaw a quiet day at the flat if Sherlock didn't come to a breakthrough any time soon, and he was oddly leery at this prediction: they rarely had a quiet day at the flat.

When noon approached, however, and John scanned the cupboards and fridge for something edible, John had to admit that he'd have to leave the calm quiet of the flat to go to the shops if Sherlock and he planned to eat that day.

Well, if John planned to eat, that is. Sherlock was on a case and wouldn't touch a crumb.

Far from attempting to talk to Sherlock when he was in his Mind Palace, John simply left a note on the kitchen table detailing where he had gone and left for the shop.

His trip was uneventful until he got to the checkout queue. Just ahead of John in the queue was a man in a familiar tweed jacket.

John stared unabashedly at the man as the man began talking to the cashier.

"Hello. Fine establishment, you have." The Doctor smiled at the cashier and put his items on the conveyor.

For some reason, seeing the Doctor buying groceries in a shop was distinctly strange.

As the cashier rang up the Doctor's groceries, John addressed him, "Hello, Doctor." John said to the man's back, hoping the surprise he felt at seeing him again wasn't evident in his voice.

The Doctor turned to John with an expectant look on his face. He was wearing the same outfit from almost a month ago: bow tie, suspenders, and all.

"Do I know you? How do you know who I am?" The Doctor's curious eyes were trained on John.

"We met about three weeks ago, I was—"

"You're John Watson, the real doctor, who I met in an alley yesterday." The Doctor said, a smile replacing his skeptical expression. "Sorry, it's quite a bit brighter in here than in that alley; I didn't recognize you at first."

John smiled back, a little confused, "That didn't happen yesterday, it was almost a month ago."

"Yes, it was yesterday for me. After I fixed my console, I made a little trip into the future to make sure everything was working correctly." The Doctor said, apparently unaware of the effect this sentence had on John. "I came here because I had a craving for Jammie Dodgers. I get cravings. That's new for me—only this face has cravings." The Doctor gestured to the conveyor, on which he had indeed placed three boxes of the biscuits in question.

John opened and closed his mouth several times, struggling to come up with something to say to that.

The cashier broke the silence, "That'll be £3 sir." She said to the Doctor.

The Doctor suddenly grimaced. "Ah, yes. Money. I forgot that was a necessity here on Earth." He said.

John was having difficulty banishing the phrases: 'trip into the future', and 'this face' from his head. Had the Doctor just implied that he was not of this world? That he had a time machine and could change his faces?

"Excuse me, sir? Your purchase amounts to £3." The cashier persisted.

"I'll cover it." John said, breaking out of his haze of confusion to address the cashier.

The Doctor beamed at him. "That's very kind of you, John Watson. Not many people I've just met have offered to fund my cravings."

"I'm not funding your… uh, cravings, I'm just returning a favor."

The Doctor nodded, "Fair enough. It's still quite nice of you. I see you found your wallet." The Doctor said, as John pulled out his wallet and paid for the Doctor's Jammie Dodgers.

"Yeah. My flat mate has connections." John said, referring to Sherlock's extensive Homeless Network. " It was recovered in no time."

John paid for his own groceries and they exited the shop together, the Doctor talking fast and John choosing to remain silent, growing more confused with each word the Doctor spoke.

"I haven't used money in ages. I've been to several planets that don't set much store by money at all. Some species are just confused by the concept of exchanging currency, but others become downright hostile. Never try to buy something off a Dalek, you'll get exterminated for your pains." The Doctor said as they walked out of the shop and began down the road.

"People don't usually let me talk this long." The Doctor looked sideways at John. "Are you always this quiet?"

John cleared his throat. "No, I'm just used to being the sounding board for someone who loves to talk." At that point, John decided to ask the questions that were multiplying in his mind with every word out of the Doctor's mouth. "Doctor, what you said earlier, about making a quick trip to the future… what did you mean by that?"

The Doctor was nibbling on a Jammie Dodger. "I meant I made a quick trip into the future. My Tardis is time machine."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you meant." John muttered.

The Doctor chuckled to himself. "Now, ask if I'm human." The Doctor finished his biscuit and smacked his lips.

"Are you human?" John asked with some trepidation.

"No." The Doctor smiled. "I'm a Time Lord."

John's head was spinning, "A Time Lord." He repeated. "And you have a time machine."

"I thought we'd established that." There was a glint of amusement in the Doctor's eyes.

"Why are you telling me this? I would think a time traveling alien would want to stay incognito." John congratulated himself on how calmly he spoke, for on the inside his mind was overflowing with the ramifications of the Doctor's existence.

"I am incognito." The Doctor leaned over and whispered in John's ear, "Don't tell anyone I'm a time traveling alien."

John gave a short huff of laughter at the absurdity of it all; it was like he was a magnet for strange geniuses.

"Thanks for the biscuits, John Watson. Now, I must be off." The Doctor handed John a Jammie Dodger. "Remember, mum's the word on the whole Time Lord business." And popping another biscuit in his mouth, the Doctor waved and turned onto a side street. John stood on the pavement, holding a crumbly biscuit and wondering what exactly had just happened.

 **A/N: I have nothing against people named Hubert.**


	3. The Third Time

**Author's Note: I'd love to get some feedback. Tell me what I'm doing right or wrong. Just don't be harsh with criticism, I'm fragile. I own absolutely nothing.**

In John's opinion, a long night at the clinic was more taxing than a night chasing criminals around London. At least there was the reward of putting another scumbag in jail at the end of a chase, his job at the clinic offered nothing but broken bones and constant coughing.

John escorted his current patient to the door with a smile that turned into a grimace as he felt his mobile buzz with another text from Sherlock.

His flat mate always made his displeasure with the inconvenience of John's job known through frequent text messages that ranged from proclamations of boredom to remarks on his current experiment or case.

This text read: _There is not one thing worth watching on the telly. -SH_

John scoffed at the text before responding: _Experiment unsuccessful, then?_ John knew that the only circumstances that would drive Sherlock to his least favorite activity—watching the telly—were a failed experiment or an utter lack of things to do.

 _It shouldn't have; my hypothesis was perfectly sound. -SH_

As John couldn't remember exactly what Sherlock had been tinkering with this time in the kitchen, he ended the conversation to avoid Sherlock's disappointment stemming from John's apparent lack of interest in his hypothesizing and experiments.

 _Sorry about the lack of telly options. I'll be home at 8:00, until then, only text for emergencies._

Sherlock's response was typically Sherlockian, and within a minute of John's text: _My boredom is an emergency. -SH_

John decided not to respond; it would only lead him down a rabbit-hole of pointless bickering that he had been down many times before.

His secretary called to inform him his next patient was here, and John put his mobile away and told her to send the patient back.

The man that entered was someone John recognized immediately.

"John Watson, the real doctor!" The Doctor said, shaking John's hand with both of his own vigorously. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Uh, likewise." John said, smiling at the man. He hadn't seen the Doctor for two months, and in that time, he hadn't told a soul about the man... or, rather, alien. "How've you been?" John asked the Doctor, genuinely curious.

"I've been great, really great. Been traveling a lot." The Doctor grinned and winked. "Just got back from Venice. Venice in 1580, I believe. Yes. 1580. There were vampires there." The Doctor leaned toward John and said this conspiratorially.

John wouldn't soon forget what the Doctor had told him about his life of time-traveling, but at this statement he was still startled.

"Vampires?" He said, somewhat quietly.

"Well, they weren't actually vampires, but on surface level, they seemed like it." The Doctor said, scratching his chin. The Doctor's expression reminded John of the way Sherlock looks on those few occasions when he gets something wrong.

"It's never _just_ vampires is it? Never that simple." The Doctor shook his head.

"No, I guess not." John said feebly. Even after a couple months to get used to the idea, (as well as multiple internet searches with keywords: the Doctor, yielding no substantial results) John's mind boggled to hear alien worlds and trips into different times talked about so casually.

"So... why are you here? Need a checkup?" John asked the Doctor, a slight headache building behind his temples due to the strain of thinking about the idea of time travel too long. "You're not sick or hurt, are you?"

The Doctor hoisted himself up on the examination table. "No. Not sick or hurt. I might need a checkup. I haven't had one in several centuries." He let his long legs swing over the edge of the examination table like a child.

"You haven't had a checkup in centuries? What, do Time Lords not have proper medical programs?"

The Doctor grinned. "I'm the only Doctor on Gallifrey. I'm here because Amy told me she thought she might have the flu, and she suggested that I go see a doctor, a real doctor," He winked at John, "to make sure that I am not developing any symptoms. Which is ridiculous, of course, Time Lords have completely different physiological makeups than humans, so I can't possibly have gotten the flu from Amy. If I haven't contracted any human diseases in the very long time I've associated myself with humans, then I'm sure to be fine among even the most infectious of them for many more years." The Doctor ended his monologue by staring seriously at John, as if to prove that what he said could not be refuted.

John thought this man might talk more than Sherlock. The both of them just loved to hear themselves talk, John supposed. He wondered if the Doctor and Sherlock would take to each other immediately, or be averse to each other's company due to their mutual desire to be the center of attention.

John was trying to think of a response to the Doctor's mini monologue when the Doctor continued,

"It's useless arguing with Amelia about anything, though. I gave her that whole speech about my strong immune system, and told her the combined efforts of my hearts ensure—"

John interrupted his second speech, "I'm sorry, hearts? Plural?"

"Yes." The Doctor pointed to his chest, waving his finger back and forth as though pointing out the positions of his two hearts, "A perfect backup system. Why do humans think a single heart would suffice for all your moving parts?"

John gaped a little. "Uh, we... we don't really get a choice in our anatomies. D'you mind if I take a listen?" John gestured to the stethoscope around his neck.

The question came from John's inability to restrain his medical curiosity; as a doctor, he could no more keep from satisfying diagnostic questions than he could stop the rain from falling.

The Doctor didn't look as though this was an odd question. "Go right ahead."

What John heard through the stethoscope was definitely not the sound of a single heart beating; John knew that sound quite well. The Doctor's dual cardiovascular system was evident through the simultaneous beat of two organs that John heard through his stethoscope.

"Amazing." John muttered, still listening to the double beat.

The Doctor's chuckle was felt rather than heard by John as he was currently leaning against the man's chest with his stethoscope to marvel at his hearts beating. Sensing the Doctor's amusement, John straightened up, feeling embarrassed: how long had he stood there listening to the Doctor's hearts?

"Sorry. I was curious." John explained.

"As a fellow doctor, I completely understand." The Doctor smiled. "Amy's waiting in the front room. I wouldn't have come to have a checkup at all if she hadn't forcibly dragged me here to make sure I wasn't ill." The Doctor sighed with some affection. "Ah, Amy. I didn't so much as sniffle but she still thought I could be infected. As I said, there's no use arguing with her."

John smiled. "I have a friend like that too."

"She won't be satisfied until I'm given a bill of health from a real doctor, and you're the best real doctor I know," The Doctor said, still swinging his legs, "so would you mind making a scene in the waiting room and proclaiming me healthy in front of Amelia? It's the only way to make Amy see that Time Lords don't get sick and this whole trip was a waste of time." The Doctor still looked content and amiable even with these petulant words. John could see that even if he feigned annoyance, the Doctor was quite fond of his friend Amy.

"Well, you have time to waste, Doctor." John quipped, putting away his stethoscope, and smiling back as the Doctor chuckled.

"That's true. Will you do it?" The subject change was as sudden as a crack of lightning. "Set me free from the bonds of human sentiment and concern?" The Doctor asked earnestly.

"Yeah, of course." John didn't even think about refusing this man who he was beginning to regard as a friend.

Amy turned out to be a red-headed young woman sitting with her arms crossed in the waiting room.

"Done already?" She asked the Doctor suspiciously.

"Yes. Luckily, I knew John Watson here," the Doctor gestured to John, "so he was able to make accommodations in his diagnosis based on my unique anatomy. He knows I'm not human." The Doctor reassured Amy. "And he says I am fit as a fiddle. Right as rain… and other similes that mean just fine. Isn't that right, John Watson?"

John cleared his throat. "Yes. Your friend doesn't have the flu, Ms…" John waited for her to give her surname.

"Pond. But just call me Amy. I hate being called Ms." Amy uncrossed her arms and got to her feet. "Don't you dare say I told you so, Doctor. Time Lords have stupid immune systems."

"Oi, our immune systems aren't stupid. They're a great deal better than weak human systems. The lot of you are always sniffling and sneezing."

"Again with the 'my species is better than yours' argument?" Amy groaned and pushed at the Doctor's arm. "I endured this rant last week when I said a plane would be easier to fly and land than the Tardis. Not to mention they're more efficient. At least a plane takes you where you want to go every time."

"Hey, the Tardis goes where she thinks I need to be. Don't be hateful to the Tardis just 'cause you're jealous of her." The Doctor looked petulant.

"Jealous? Oh please. I'm not having this conversation now."

John had been watching this conversation amusedly; their familiarity with each other and pointless bickering reminded John of conversations he'd had with Sherlock.

"Anyway. Thanks… Dr. Watson, right? Thanks for making sure this idiot didn't have the flu. God, now I feel stupid for making you come, Doctor. I'm glad you can't get sick, though. You'd be awful with the flu."

"I would be the perfect patient." The Doctor said, with the air of one accepting a challenge.

As the two of them exited the clinic, the Doctor gave John a cheery wave.

When John got back to the flat that night, he was still thinking of his encounter with the Doctor. With each meeting, John grew more curious about the man.

Sherlock hadn't been in the flat when John arrived, but after John made himself a cuppa and settled in his armchair, he heard his flatmate's footsteps on the stairs.

"Case. Barely a two." Sherlock said when he entered the living room, as explanation for his absence. He shed his long coat and scarf as he stood in the doorway and looked at John with a curious expression. "You look like you're thinking hard about something. That's unusual."

"Shut up." John said without heat. He was indeed thinking: about time travel and aliens.

"Don't tell me." Sherlock said, sitting in his armchair across from John and steepling his fingers as he examined John. "A patient peaked your curiosity. You were surprised by something this patient said and you haven't been able to banish him from your mind."

John looked back at Sherlock and didn't attempt to stop the deductions from coming. If he found out, he found out.

"This man told you something fantastical… not today. A while ago. This wasn't your first meeting with this man, then."

John sipped his tea placidly, not giving Sherlock any encouragement.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment more and then scoffed abruptly. "How did he convince you that time travel was possible? Did you diagnose him as clinically insane? You should've. Really, John." Sherlock sprang up from his seat, chuckling to himself at John's foolishness.

John was dumbfounded and he knew he shouldn't be: of course Sherlock would be able to deduce what he had learned from the Doctor.

"Yeah, Sherlock, you're right." John said. "He's probably just another raving lunatic." John hesitated, then spoke. "But… you can't tell me you've never thought about the possibility of time travel?"

Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle John brewed and scoffed. "Time travel is improbable. The paradoxes would be insurmountable."

"Hm. Yet, you said 'improbable' instead of 'impossible'. Isn't that your mantra? 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'?"

John felt validated at the nonplussed expression on Sherlock's face.

"You've memorized my mantra?" Sherlock sounded confused, yet pleased.

"You've said it enough. How about my question? You don't seem convinced on the impossibility of time travel."

Sherlock glared at him with a hostility born from being contradicted. "I haven't ruled it out."

John grinned.


	4. The Fourth Time

**Author's Note: I wrote this one really fast. Hope it doesn't show. Tell me what you think, I'd love to get some feedback. I own nothing: Doctor Who and Sherlock belong to other people.**

John was enjoying a night at the pub with Greg when he next saw the Doctor.

Sherlock had been invited to come as well, but he had declined before John made the offer. John had felt a small measure of relief when Sherlock declined the invitation, not because he didn't enjoy Sherlock's company, but because it was very tiresome at times to curb Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies when in public.

"His majesty decided he wouldn't deign to join us?" Greg asked John once they had sat down with their pints at a table.

John smiled. "Yes, he was very clear about—what were his exact words?—not wanting to 'pass the evening among drunken idiots'."

Greg shook his head. Grinning, he said, "Why am I not surprised? Sherlock's idea of a fun night involves multiple serial killers and locked room murders."

Greg and John smiled at each other in a mutual commiserating sort of way; both were so used to Sherlock's eccentricities, groaning together about the great detective had become normal.

"So, you haven't been consulting him for cases for a while; have you been solving them yourself?" John teased lightly.

Greg grinned. "Yeah, I have. It's been great being able to do my own job." Then, with a look of pity, "It's probably been awful for you, though; has he been driving you up the wall with irritated boredom?"

"It's Sherlock, what do you think? Yeah, his boredom infuses the very air on Baker Street with misery." John said.

Greg made a noise of sympathy as he took a swig of his beer.

"Yesterday I got him to stop bouncing off the walls, though. At least for a little while." John took a drink of his beer as well.

"You sound like a worried father." Greg said, "Go on, how'd you calm him down?"

John chuckled, "I gave him a kid's joke book."

"There's no way you got Sherlock Holmes to sit down and read a kid's joke book." Greg sounded curious despite himself.

"It was a joke book for aspiring chemists. I saw it at the shop and bought it as a laugh. Kind of a gag-gift for the next time Sherlock started to drive me insane. When I gave it to him, he actually seemed to like it."

John turned to look at Greg and was met with a look of disbelief. "Sherlock read a chemistry joke book? Voluntarily?"

"Yes." John laughed at the look on Greg's face: the detective inspector looked almost horrified.

"Has he officially gone insane?"

"I don't think so. I thought he had too when he started quietly laughing himself to tears at one of the jokes." John said, still amused by Greg's reaction; he'd been waiting to tell the inspector this story for a week.

"I don't think Sherlock has ever laughed at a knock-knock joke in his life. Are you taking the mickey?"

"Trust me, I was as amazed as you are. Do you want to hear what the joke was or not?" John took another drink of his beer, waiting for the DI's response.

"Why do chemistry jokes exist anyway? Is there a big demand for corny jokes about the Periodic Table?"

"Guess so. The book I got was only volume one. Should I tell you the joke?

Greg rubbed his eyes wearily. "Yeah. Hit me."

"What do you do with a sick chemist?"

"Oh God. What?"

John had memorized the joke just for this occasion, "If you can't helium, then you might as well barium." John's dry delivery made Greg guffaw.

"That's it? Sherlock laughed until he cried because of a couple puns?"

"I think he was hysterical with boredom."

"Hysterical with boredom?" Said a voice adjacent to Greg and John, "I never let myself get bored. Waste of time."

Without turning around, John knew who the voice belonged to.

"Sorry?" Greg turned to face the man who had spoken, "Have you been listening to our conversation?"

The Doctor was sitting at a nearby table with his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He smiled at Greg's question. "Yes, I was listening. Conversations in a pub are never dull. And I know John Watson here, so I couldn't resist."

Greg looked at John questioningly, but John was studiously avoiding meeting the Doctor's eyes. He did _not_ want to have to explain how he knew the Doctor to Greg.

"John, do you know this man?" Greg finally asked.

John cleared his throat and looked at the Doctor, who was still smiling. "Yeah, he's my…uh… friend."

Greg, ever polite, introduced himself and held out a hand which the Doctor leaned forward to shake.

"I'm the Doctor." The Doctor said, introducing himself in return.

"The Doctor? Doctor what?"

John interrupted before the Time Lord could say anything, "Just a nickname. His real name is—"

After a pleading look from John, the Doctor took the hint and gave an alias. "Name's Smith. John Smith."

John couldn't help feeling frustrated that the Doctor's alias was 'John'.

"Yes. John Smith." John said. "I met him at Bart's."

"Right." Greg said, "Well, why don't you join us, Mr. Smith, we were just talking about John's crazy flat mate."

"Sherlock?" Asked the Doctor.

"Yeah, do you know him?"

"Never met him. John's told me about him, though." The Doctor stood up nimbly from his chair and took a seat next to John.

"What are you doing here, Doc—I mean, Smith?" John asked the Doctor.

The Doctor clasped his hands in front of him. "The bartender's a Zygon. I've been staking out this pub for a couple hours now, but he hasn't shown up yet."

Of course, the Doctor just had to say the worst possible thing. Greg looked confused.

"What's a Zygon? Are you with Scotland Yard, Mr. Smith? I wasn't informed of a hostile in the area."

Things were going from bad to worse. "He's not an officer, Zygons are characters from a role-playing game. You know, like Dungeons and Dragons?" John was just grasping at straws now, and he cringed inwardly at how stupid he sounded.

"What, like LARP? Live Action Role Play?" Greg asked, the confusion leaving his face. "Those games can get violent. I've had to arrest some of the more avid players for assault."

The Doctor looked intrigued, "Role-play? Is that a game?"

Greg raised his eyebrows at the Doctor, "Yeah, you play it don't you?"

"No, I'm a Time—"

"Can you excuse us for a minute?" John interrupted, giving the Doctor a look that meant _stop talking_ and _follow me._

Looking sort of insulted, the Doctor followed John a little way away from their table. Greg looked after them suspiciously and continued drinking his beer.

Once they were a sufficient distance from the table, John turned to the Doctor and asked him, "What happened to wanting to be incognito? Why are you babbling about aliens in the middle of a pub?"

The Doctor straightened his bow-tie, "I never babble. You asked what I was doing in a pub, I answered."

John thought for perhaps the thousandth time how extraordinarily like Sherlock the Doctor was. "Why is your fake name John Smith? That's so generic."

"You do know that you are calling your own name generic?"

"John Smith is everyone's alias. It's in all the movies."

"Well, why did you say 'the Doctor' was just a nickname?" The Doctor crossed his arms petulantly.

"Isn't it a nickname? I mean, your real name isn't the Doctor?"

The Doctor muttered something that sounded like 'Not a nickname' and John rolled his eyes, but felt like laughing just the same.

"Look, can you just lighten up on the alien talk? Greg will have you committed if you start talking about your life of time-travel and alien planets." John said, a pleading look in his eyes.

The Doctor uncrossed his arms and patted John on the shoulder. "Not to worry, John Watson, I will be a model human until the Zygon comes. I've done it before."

"Done what before? Acted like a human or captured a… Zygon?"

"Both." The Doctor grinned.

The Doctor was as good as his word. He sat with John and Greg and made polite small-talk, thankfully, not about aliens. The Doctor was certainly a good actor; he came across as a little hyper, yes, but plausibly normal.

The Doctor told them stories about his "role-playing games" and John and Greg entertained the Doctor by talking about the cases Sherlock had helped with. The Doctor turned out to be a very companionable drinking mate, though the Time Lord had turned down the offer of a beer.

Greg downed the last of his pint of beer and stood up, "I'd better get going. My wife'll be waiting up for me. Good to meet you, Mr. Smith." Greg shook the Doctor's hand and clapped John on the shoulder. "See you, John."

Once Greg was gone, the Doctor looked expectantly at John like a child waiting to be praised.

"Did I make a good human? Nice and ordinary?"

John laughed, "Yeah, perfect."

"Would I let you down, John Watson?" The Doctor asked. Without waiting for a response, the Doctor stood up. "Now its time to confront a Zygon." With a wink, the Doctor crept behind the bar and tapped the bartender, who he had claimed was an alien, on the shoulder.

John watched the Doctor's and the bartender's discussion grow heated. The bartender was getting red in the face. In fact, his whole body was becoming red. John had just wanted a calm pub night, but the alien that had taken residence in the pub seemed to have other ideas.

The Zygon continued to shed his human form; soon, John was staring with disgust at a big, red, sucker-covered alien. The Doctor looked triumphant, and oblivious to the shocked patrons of the pub.

"Uh, Doctor." John said, staring wide-eyed at the creature, "Do you want to get that thing out of here before it starts raining down its wrath on humanity?"

The Zygon had a sneer on its ugly red face. The Doctor didn't seem concerned that the Zygon looked homicidal. "Its alright, John, I've made a deal with him. He's willing to leave. Apparently bartending is a boring job."

Before the drunken pubgoers could do more than shout in alarm, the Doctor had bustled the Zygon out the door.

John paid for the beers, and followed the Doctor out of the pub, hoping the inebriated pubgoers just thought they had been hallucinating an alien, rather than actually seeing one.

The blue box the Doctor called the Tardis materialized in front of him when John stepped out of the pub, and the Doctor stepped out of it. He clapped his hands together and announced, "Mission accomplished."

"The—the Zygon? You took him away?"

"Job well done, eh?" The Doctor's clothes looked distinctly dirtier than they did not five minutes ago.

John had a hunch it took more than five minutes for the Doctor to take the Zygon away. "How long have you been gone?" John asked.

The Doctor shrugged, "Two, three weeks? I talked the Zygon out of destroying humanity, helped out some 17th century pirates with a little Siren problem, and now I'm back to let you know all is taken care of."

John felt suddenly exhausted. "Yeah. Great. Thanks."

The Doctor smiled, "Want a ride home?" He patted the door of his blue box. "Cabs are expensive."

John looked appraisingly at the blue box. "No thanks, I don't want to arrive home years in the future."

The Doctor shook his head as if in exasperation at John's ignorance, "The Tardis doesn't only travel in _time_ , John Watson. Time and space are her specialty. I could get you home without going forwards or backwards in time. Unless you want to get there five minutes ago? Come on, John Watson, my Tardis doesn't bite."

John hesitated, but it wasn't like the Doctor was offering to take him back in time, or to another planet.

"Alright, cab fare _is_ expensive." John said lightly.

The Doctor grinned and stepped back into his blue box to let John come in. John's gob-smacked expression when he entered the Tardis amused the Doctor.

"Bigger on the inside, yes?"

John could only gape.


	5. The Fifth Time

**Author's Note: This one is a little bit shorter than the other ones because life as a college student sucks. Thank you to those who reviewed/favorited/followed! I don't own anything.**

The Doctor bounced about, pulling levers and pressing buttons on the Tardis' console.

"We'll be at Baker Street before you can say Raxacoricofallapatorius." He said, dashing to the opposite side of the console and flipping some switches.

John turned on the spot and gazed around the Tardis control room, "I have no idea how long it would take me to say Raxi— that word. Doctor, your time machine is extraordinary."

John felt vaguely like a kid in a candy shop, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from examining the console and trying out the controls.

"Why thank you, John Watson, I'm rather fond of my Tardis as well."

The Doctor pulled a final lever, and John heard the same whooshing, squealing noise he had heard months ago when he had first met the Doctor.

Something the Doctor had said suddenly registered with John, "Hang on, I didn't tell you my address, how did you know I live on Baker Street?"

With a tutting noise, the Doctor expressed his contempt for the question, "Come now, John, surely you expected me to research all my acquaintances? I looked you up, so to speak, in the future. You and your flat mate are quite well-known in twenty or so years."

John blinked. "Sherlock and I are well-known? How do you mean?"

The Doctor tutted again, "Spoilers, Dr. Watson, spoilers."

John didn't know how to respond to that, so he resumed his observation of the Tardis instead. The machine was, as the Doctor had remarked, bigger on the inside. Much, much bigger, it seemed, for John saw corridors and staircases branching off from the main control room.

"We're here!" The Doctor said, smiling at John. The Doctor walked to the door and threw it open, proving to John that they had, in fact moved.

"That was certainly faster than taking a cab!" John smiled back, joining the Doctor at the door and shaking his hand. "Thank you, Doctor."

The Doctor wrung John's hand enthusiastically, "Not a problem, John, not a problem. Happy to help. You know, one of these days we should make plans to meet each other. Not that I'm getting tired of randomly seeing you in my travels, but it would just make a nice change."

John laughed, "Sure, I'd like that." He said honestly; time with the Doctor, much like time with Sherlock, was never dull.

The Doctor waved in farewell, and closed the Tardis door. John stood in front of 221b and watched the blue box disappear with that characteristic whooshing noise and grinned before walking in the flat.

Two days later, John was followed by one of Mycroft's cars as he was walking home from the clinic. John sighed and kept walking, seeing how long he could get away with ignoring the car.

His phone buzzed a minute later with a message from the elder Holmes: _I have some questions for you, Dr. Watson. Please get in the car._

John got in the car, knowing a 'please' from Mycroft was rarer than a 'please' from Sherlock, and Mycroft would only use a 'please' when the situation was urgent. He was less exasperated by the appearance of the nondescript black car now that he knew the 'kidnapping' was not due to something inane.

"John, it's been a while, how are you?" Mycroft said in greeting when John entered the room.

"It really hasn't been a while, you kidnapped me two weeks ago to ask me if Sherlock was playing nice with the officers at Scotland Yard." John was surprised Mycroft had chosen to meet in his own office rather than a parking garage or an abandoned warehouse.

Mycroft didn't smile. "Yes. Well, this meeting isn't about Sherlock, I was hoping you could answer some questions for me, John."

"Sure." John prompted, unconcerned.

"Do you recognize this man?" Mycroft pushed a glossy picture across his desk towards John. John stepped forward to pick the picture up and just managed to suppress a gasp. The picture was of a man wearing a red bow tie and tweed jacket and John did indeed recognize him.

As John stared at the picture, Mycroft watched him closely.

John cleared his throat, thinking fast, "Friend of yours?" He asked.

"No." Mycroft gave a tight smile. "CCTV happened to capture you exiting this man's ah... vehicle two days ago. This man is a person of interest to a certain branch of the military that is generally unknown to civilians. How did you come into contact with this man?" Mycroft said all this without taking his eyes off John.

John adopted an expression of confusion. "Sorry to disappoint you, Mycroft, but I've never seen this man before." John placed the picture back on the desk and carefully preserved his perplexed expression.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Indeed? Well, kindly explain this CCTV photograph for me."

He pushed another picture across the desk and John picked it up. It was a blurry photo of John and the Doctor standing outside of the pub from two nights ago.

John sighed, and gave up the ruse. With this much proof stacked against him, it was foolish to let the lies continue to build. "I know him." He said. "I met him months ago. I didn't know he was being investigated, and I didn't seek him out. We just... keep meeting. I don't know why."

"And you are aware of his… condition?" It was rather amusing how Mycroft avoided saying the word 'alien' like the plague.

"Yes, I know he's an alien. A Time Lord." John amended.

"How many times have you met?" Mycroft asked, seeming satisfied that John was complying.

"Four times now." John said.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No one just happens to see the Doctor four times. Are you quite sure these meetings weren't planned?" Mycroft said, as though he still thought John was lying and was trying to coax him into telling the truth.

"Quite sure." John said, trying to keep himself from scoffing. "Honestly, I'm as amazed as you are. It's becoming rather ridiculous: I see him everywhere."

Mycroft nodded like he had been expecting this. "Thank you, John. You will excuse my need for a confirmation, when the Doctor told me that he knew you I was surprised."

"How often doyoutalk with the Doctor?" John asked. He should've known that Mycroft, as a high-ranking government official would be aware of the existence of aliens.

"I'm not part of UNIT—the military organization that investigates the Doctor—but I work with them from time to time." Mycroft said, then he stood up abruptly and walked to the door. Opening it, he said, "Doctor? You can come in now."

"Finally. I hate to be kept waiting." The Doctor entered the office, looking peeved. "If I knew how protective you were of John I wouldn't have mentioned knowing him." He said to Mycroft.

"John is a friend of my brother's." Mycroft said to the Doctor, "No friend of my brother should have an acquaintance with you, Doctor, the most dangerous man in the universe, without my knowledge."

John watched this exchange bemusedly. "So The Doctor said he knew me and you had a panic attack and had to kidnap me to find out if he was including me in wild, world-saving adventures?" John asked Mycroft.

Mycroft gave a tight smile, "Accurate summary, John."

"I think you've put John through enough trouble today," The Doctor said, looking at Mycroft. "Which is why I'm going to take him to get some lunch. Know any good restaurants around here, John?"

So, John took the Doctor to a restaurant he'd been to with Sherlock a couple times and over their meals, they exchanged stories. The Doctor seemed genuinely interested in John's stories about the cases he'd been on with Sherlock.

"…and that case culminated in the Black Lotus mob boss kidnapping me and my girlfriend. Sherlock arrived just in time, of course. Git." John shook his head somewhat fondly in remembrance.

The Doctor munched on his chips. "I'll have to meet him sometime."

"Sherlock?"

"The great detective." The Doctor said, staring at nothing in particular.

"Yeah." John agreed, halfheartedly, "I don't know how that meeting would go, Doctor. Sherlock is entirely opposed to the idea of aliens."

"Most people are," The Doctor said, focusing back on John. Then, shifting subjects abruptly, "You care about him, don't you?" He asked John.

John was nonplussed for a moment. "Of course. He's my friend."

The Doctor looked like he was thinking something through, and when he spoke it sounded like he was talking to himself, not John, "So, he was devasted when Sherlock—" and he broke off suddenly, staring at John concernedly. "Oh no…" The Doctor murmured.

John felt his stomach sink as foreboding overwhelmed him, "When Sherlock what? What happens to Sherlock in the future? Doc- Doctor? What is it?" The Doctor was still staring at John.

"I can't stop it from happening. Timelines and all. He has to do it in order to take down the network." The Doctor said under his breath. "But I can make sure he's aware of the consequences. Yes…" And with that ominous statement, The Doctor stood up, abandoning his half-eaten lunch.

"Doctor, where are you going?"

"2012." The Doctor said, and before he left he smiled at John. "Not to worry. I'll handle it."

John was thoroughly concerned and confused. "You'll handle it? Handle what?"

But the Doctor was gone.

John looked down at his plate, but was no longer hungry. What happened in 2012 that the Doctor needed to fix?


	6. And One Time

**Author's Note: Last chapter! Thanks to all who has favorited/followed/reviewed. I'd like to know what you think of this chapter. Tell me what I did right, what I did wrong. Sherlock and the Doctor are the hardest characters in the world to write, and because I'm crazy, I put them both in one chapter… I own nothing!**

Every word that John directed at the tombstone hurt Sherlock. John's words of loyalty and aching sadness twisted Sherlock's heart with a physical pain that he had never experienced before.

Even after John walked away from the grave, back ramrod straight and hiding his grief with the stoicism of a soldier, Sherlock remained in the cemetery, eyes still fixed on the place where John had been standing.

Thoughts of what the future would bring harangued Sherlock; he knew that taking down Moriarty's network would be a long and dangerous undertaking.

It was while Sherlock was thus engaged in thought that he heard a whooshing of engines.

That was the only word for it: whooshing.

Sherlock looked around for the source of the noise and stepped backwards involuntary as a blue phone box materialized out of nowhere. It wasn't often that Sherlock was taken by surprise, but the unexpected appearance of a police phone box from the early 20th century left him flabbergasted. The engines of the machine continued to whir. Sherlock looked around at the empty graveyard, then stared back at the box. "What the hell?" he muttered.

Sherlock stepped forward hesitantly, looking closely at the blue box. It seemed very solid, so it wasn't a hologram or a projection. Based on what he knew of police phone boxes, this one looked authentic except for the size of the windows and the overall width.

Sherlock attempted to open the door of the phone box and it was then that the door opened from the inside.

Sherlock nearly tripped over his own feet stepping back. Catching his balance, he saw a man throw open the door of the phone box and step out.

In the second before the man spoke, Sherlock noticed that he was dressed quite oddly. Who, besides old men and very young boys, still wore a bow tie and suspenders?

The man in the bow tie and suspenders looked Sherlock up and down and said, "Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock, feeling dumbstruck and slow, said, "Yes. Who's asking?"

The man grinned and wrung Sherlock's hand, "Great. I knew I'd find you eventually. Nice to meet you, I'm the Doctor, I'm here to be your ghost of Christmas future. Well, sort of, because I'm not a spirit and I don't really want to _show_ you the future. You don't need _that_ many spoilers. But I do intend to tell you about the future."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sherlock said, having gotten past his initial shock while the man was talking.

The man didn't seem to hear him, he was staring at Sherlock appraisingly. "You know, you're not as tall as I thought you'd be. I suppose it's the long coat that makes you look imposing."

He waited for Sherlock to respond, but Sherlock said nothing.

"I had a long coat before. It didn't make me look imposing, but it did make me look taller." The Doctor finished.

"What did you call yourself? The Doctor?" Sherlock asked, a vague memory resurfacing from about a year ago, from the night John was mugged: John had said he had been aided by a man who called himself "the Doctor" and Sherlock had dismissed this because he thought it unimportant. Then there was John's browser history as of late, with most of his searches consisting of "the Doctor" and something called a "Tardis". Sherlock had dismissed these as well as he had thought the searches were referring to some television program or other pop culture nonsense.

And yet, here was the Doctor right in front of him. Once you've eliminated the impossible...

"Yes. I'm the Doctor. Keep up." The Doctor responded.

Sherlock glared at the man, as that was the phrase he himself used when people were being slow. "Do you know John Watson?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes." The Doctor said. "I was just with him. Left him at a restaurant while I did a quick hop into 2012 to find you and reprimand you for your suicide."

Sherlock stared at the man, confused that he was referring to time travel so casually. "What are you?" He asked rather rudely. "And what is this blue box?"

"John didn't tell you about me? Strange. I thought you were renowned for your powers of observation? You haven't noticed that John has been secretly keeping in touch with a dangerous alien?" The Doctor had a glint of amusement in his eye, as if he was enjoying Sherlock's confusion.

"You're an alien, then?" Sherlock was willing to accept anything at the moment. On top of watching his own funeral and watching John speak to his fake grave, finding out that aliens exist didn't change his state of mind much.

"Time Lord." The Doctor said, straightening his bow tie. "And this is my Tardis. My time machine. My mobile phone." He added, patting the blue box.

"Tardis." Sherlock said the word slowly. "An acronym for something?"

"Very good, Sherlock Holmes. Tardis stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space."

Sherlock was starting to feel out of his depth, an emotion that he did not enjoy. In order to bring some clarity back to the situation, he scanned the Doctor, brain taking in data as fast as usual. He knew nothing of aliens or time travel, but he was quite good at deducing.

"You're very old and you've been traveling for centuries in various disguises."

"Hmm. Disguises? More like various faces."

Sherlock ignored this. "You've acquired different companions in your travels, but most of them have met untimely ends due to the dangerous life you lead. Oh, that's got to hurt." Sherlock said in a mocking voice. "I can practically see the survivor's guilt written on your face."

The Doctor looked neither surprised nor hurt by the onslaught of deductions. He stared at Sherlock while Sherlock spoke, an ironic smile on his face.

Sherlock scowled, wanting to hurt this man, to release some of the pain he felt. "Your real name isn't the Doctor. Its merely a pseudonym. There are very few people to whom you've told your real name. One of the people you've told is your wife, with whom you have anything but a simple relationship. Marital problems, Doctor?"

"Well, she has tried to kill me multiple times. But that wasn't her fault." The Doctor was still smiling.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked.

"You just faked your suicide."

"Why do you care?"

"If I didn't know John Watson I wouldn't care. But I consider him a friend, now, after we've had several serendipitous meetings. I've grown to quite like John—"

"Everyone likes John." Sherlock said bluntly.

"Don't interrupt me. I hate it when people interrupt me. It's rude." The Doctor looked mildly peeved.

"Get to your point, then. You've come from the past to yell at me for hurting John? You've completely missed the point of my suicide. I'm doing this to protect him."

"Yes, yes, that's the end result. You destroy Moriarty's henchmen and while you're away John sinks deeper and deeper into depression, unaware that you're still alive, traversing the world looking for the bad guys." The Doctor said in a voice that hid anger.

Sherlock glared at the Time Lord, "How dare you imply that you care more for John's wellbeing than I? I am dismantling Moriarty's network so as to ensure his safety."

The Doctor shook his head, "Why did you make him watch?" He asked.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You made John watch every second of your suicide. You called him and told him to watch. He begged you to stop."

Sherlock winced at the deliberate way the Doctor said these last words. Sherlock took a deep breath, his mind in turmoil. Didn't the Doctor realize how much it hurt Sherlock to have made John watch. This stupid alien knew nothing. "I—I…he had to watch. That was the plan."

"He had to be focused on you on top of the building so he wouldn't see what was happening down below? So he wouldn't see the people preparing to make your fake death look very real?" It was amazing how the Doctor's face had transformed: when he had exited the Tardis he had looked mischievous and childish, yet know, as he berated Sherlock, he looked dangerous and determined.

Sherlock was speechless.

"Did you ever stop to think about how he would _feel_? How he would be affected by watching his best friend plummet to the ground?"

Sherlock could almost feel his mind reinforcing the walls he had built to block the memories of John's cracked voice as he begged the paramedics to let him through. The awful look of devastation on John's face when he saw the blood, shockingly red against Sherlock's pale face. "John will be fine. He'll be sad for a little bit, and then he'll get over it. He'll… He'll get over me."

"Do you really believe that?" The Doctor looked at Sherlock intently.

Sherlock exhaled shakily, the walls holding back the memories crumbling despite his mental efforts. "No. I don't believe that. It's just what I'm telling myself." He hated showing weakness in front of this stranger, but something about the Doctor invited Sherlock to tell the truth.

The Doctor's face looked sympathetic now. "Human emotions are messy." He said quietly, almost to himself.

"Yes." Sherlock said, feeling exhausted for some reason.

The Doctor smiled at Sherlock, "Do you want me to tell you if you succeed?"

Sherlock looked at the man. "I would think time travelers have strict rules against that sort of thing?"

With a shrug, the Doctor said, "I'm the last of my kind. I think I can get away with one spoiler."

"Do I succeed?" Sherlock asked, almost afraid for the answer.

The Doctor grinned. "In about twenty years, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are the most famous crime fighting duo in Britain. Perhaps in the world."

Sherlock felt like crying. He would survive this. John would forgive him for faking his death.

"Everything turns out in the end." The Doctor said softly, watching Sherlock as he tried to control the floodgate of emotion that had suddenly been opened inside of him.

Sherlock could only nod.

"I'll check in on him from time to time, Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor said. "I will make sure he doesn't stop living simply because he thinks you have."

Sherlock nodded again. His chest was constricted as well as his throat. "I… that's good. Thank you, Doctor." He managed to force out.

The Doctor gave him a salute. "Nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor opened the door to his Tardis. "I'm off to fight my own battle." And with a final smile, the Doctor closed the door and the sound of the engines preceded the disappearance of the Tardis.

Sherlock cleared his throat and flipped his collar up. It was time to go.


End file.
